The Mysteries of Brambly Hollow

anorexic, she decided. Unable to face eating the scones, she was breaking up the evidence and trying to conceal it by tossing it under the table. That would certainly explain her sparrow like frame.
    “By the way,” Meli spoke casually, trying not to think about the mountain of scone growing around her feet when Mrs. Rushmore helped herself to seconds. “Do any of you know someone locally called Finn?” Meli couldn’t waste the opportunity to subtly grill her visitors. Three pairs of startled eyes flicked her way.
    “Why would you ask?” Mrs. Barber, who was not displaying any signs of suffering any eating disorders, apart from being unable to stop, had her third scone suspended half way between her mouth and plate, a dollop of cream from scone number two, clinging to her upper lip.
    “Just something the boys said,” Meli tried to keep any anxiety from her voice.
    “That’s strange, very strange. Haven’t heard that name for years.” Between her vice like fingers, the remains of the carefully erected scone, with its voluminous jam and cream layers, was buckling. “The only Finn I have ever known in the village was Elsa’s son, the one who is buried in the graveyard.” At that moment the tower crumbled under the pressure, boulders falling heavily onto the plate, leaving Mrs. Barber holding thin air with her fat, sticky fingers.
    “Really?” Meli sounded quite shocked, quite disappointed.
    “I expect the boys were just having you on.” A thick portion of tongue slithered from between her lips and caught the overhang of cream, just as it dropped from its anchorage, and scooped it into her mouth.
    “Yes, possibly.” Meli left half a scone uneaten on her plate. Why would they make up such a thing? But there had to be someone. She stared out the window. Could she trust them? Ask them who the boys might have befriended, someone they obviously knew she would take exception to.
    “You looked worried,” Mrs. Barber commented astutely.
    “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing…” Almost embarrassed, Meli glanced down at her lap, her fingers fumbling with a tiny crumb.
    “But?”
    Meli just had to know, and she might never have another opportunity like this. Lifting her eyes, they locked with Mrs. Barber’s. “It’s just that someone gave the boys some pet mice, someone by the name of Finn.” Meli’s leg jerked slightly as something tickled against her ankle.
    “Oh yuk,” Mrs. Swindon visibly blanched, allowing an avalanche of crumbs to tumble from her tongue.
    For a moment Meli wasn‘t sure if the yuk related to mice or Finn. She was hopeful until the plumbers wife finished. “If there’s one thing I detest, it’s mice.”
    “Rats are far worse,” Mrs. Rushmore interjected with her nasal twang. “Did you know, that according to an article I read recently, that there are so many rats now that no one,” her beady eyes widened to pea size as they flicked meaningfully between the other three women, “is ever more than ten feet away from a rat.” She was rewarded by another ‘yuk’ from Mrs. Swindon, who locked her knees together, and for good measure clutched her skirt around her calves with both hands, her eyes enlarging as they swung across the floor. With a growing sense of unease, Meli resisted the urge to reach under the table to scratch her leg. Had Mrs. Rushmore’s crumbs enticed a huge, hungry rat out of hiding? When something decidedly furry brushed against the sensitive shards of shaven hairs on her leg, it was just too much. With a squeal, she hurled herself backwards, sending her chair crashing against the wall. The effect on the other three women was instantaneous. They were all jettisoned away from the table as though caught in the blast of a grenade, then they all stood panting, their eyes following Meli’s as she stared wide-eyed at the table. As they watched, the edge of the white tablecloth began to shake. Meli reached for a knife, its blade already red and sticky with jam.
    “No, no,” Mrs. Rushmore suddenly screamed, launching herself with amazing agility at the table. Before Meli could do anything to save her, Mrs. Rushmore was on her bony knees and scampering under the overhang of tablecloth, until the only visible part of her was the soles of her well worn sandals. Meli’s mouth hung open. She hadn’t realised that Mrs. Rushmore was so brave, going head to head with a rat. She should at least have taken the knife. She stifled another unbecoming squeal, when Mrs.